


jailbirds

by galaxyeyedrops



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M, takes place after christmas, the ghost content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-21 08:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11939946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxyeyedrops/pseuds/galaxyeyedrops
Summary: It's necessary, Ren tells himself. He needs to keep his friends safe.





	1. Chapter 1

They keep him in Tokyo.

The center he's sent to is old, from what Sae Nijima tells him. _Established in the Showa Era, with hundreds of success stories—_ she talks as if reading off a brochure. She squeezes in a positive adjective in every sentence, a word of praise between every breath.

She tells him it's old and means prestigious. She tells him it's old and means _trustworthy_.

No offense (full offense actually, the Phantom Thieves didn't get as far as they had by shutting up and being respectful) to Ms. Nijima but Ren didn't exactly have the best track record with the old types obsessed with prestige.

It was kind of the whole reason he was in this situation, after all.

To be fair, Ren can tell she did put the effort in. From the outside, the building is well maintained. The hedges are trimmed, the metal fences are free of rust, there is no litter lying around. Its neither messy nor extravagant, easily mistakable for an office building at first glance, the simplistic backdrop blending in all too well in quiet Nerima.

The inside isn't much different. White tile runs along the length of the floor. A security guard stands by a metal detector at the entrance.

They pat him down roughly, search through his belongings with impunity, crumpling up his beloved blazer, scattering his underwear across the steel table.

It's unnecessary. The police have already been through all of his things at the station.

It's necessary. He needs to keep his friends safe.

They shove everything back into his bag. It all fits easily, leaving plenty of empty space inside. He hears the cop who escorted him and the security guard whisper in the background. Ren wonders if a cat, an actual cat, would fit in as well as Morgana. Stay as still; be just as respectful of his things.

The term _flight risk_ is murmured. Fingers dig into his arms, promising bruises in the morning. They guide him to his bag and drag him towards the elevator.  _Home sweet home,_ they say.

 

He is not allowed any visitors, he finds out the next day. _Sorry_ , the man who delivers his breakfast says with a smile. _But we have restrictions for guests in solitary._ His eyes crinkle near the corners. _You'll be confined to your room for twenty three hours of the day, emergencies not included, and given an hour for exercise._

He lists them off in a light voice, a cross between clinical and cheery. “ _Library privileges revoked, phone call privileges revoked, no television, no internet….”_ The list goes on and on.

Ren gets the idea behind it. Limits were imposed on people in solitary to encourage them to behave better, to stay out.

But they continue to be enforced regardless of circumstance. He’s seen it before, he’s sure he’ll see it again. People in power, those awful rotten people, enjoy what they have and forget about those that suffer underneath them. Laugh among each other as their lessers sink further into the dirt, content in their superiority, certain that they’re doing an amazing job.

The room they provide him with is carefully inoffensive. Cream colored walls and mismatching furniture. Four metal framed beds take up most of the space, each nailed down to the floor. A small desk is hidden in a corner, the top layer of the faux wood starting to peel off.

All this compounded by a camera affixed high on the opposite wall, encased in plexiglass, pointing directly at the desk.

There is no doubt that it’s recording, that they are watching.

Are they enjoying this? Are they passing the tapes to cops, so they too can laugh at the Phantom Thief? The fool who thought he could change the world?

A part of Ren wants to laugh, himself. If only to salvage the remnants of his pride.

 

* * *

 

 

Before his probation, Ren's grades were average at best. He worked hard in subjects he liked and slacked off otherwise. He hung out at arcades, finished some of his homework but not all, and generally had a pretty good time.

After his arrest, his first one, he watched his parents run around panicked after his old high school expelled him.

His mother blamed his father for never being around, his father levied the same accusation back. Both begged all the surrounding high schools to take him in.

They were rebuffed, time and time again, but they continued trying regardless.

Ren’s court date came soon enough, and with it, an opportunity.

 

“Tokyo,” his mother had said, with stars in her eyes. In the capital, her efforts were more successful. In the capital, there were ears for her desperate pleas to fall on.

Soon enough, a glossy brochure with students smiling on the front, was pinned up on the fridge.

She talked late into the night about the city, bustling and busy. She spoke of a place full of strangers, unaware of his crimes. She spoke of a societal ladder, free for him to climb.

She waved her hands excitedly as she wove her tale. She told him of a city, modern as can be. Modern, she told him, and meant  _accepting._

He tried, of course, what else could he do but try? He slipped on a pair of fake glasses and kept his head down—more than ready to follow through for the rest of high school, perhaps even longer. It didn’t work out, naturally, but he tried to keep his grades up as much as possible. While Miss Kawakami let him skip classes from time to time, she did tutor him as well, helping him catch up on work he missed along with stuff he didn’t understand.

And with that, his grades began to change. Nothing near Makoto’s or Akechi’s level, of course, but still good. Top third of the class rankings, even. His mother almost cried over the phone when he told her the news.

Now, he really doesn’t have much of a choice but to study. The people here had made it clear, those in solitary were not allowed most forms of entertainment in order to reflect on their actions better. Given their focus on rehabilitation, study materials were one of the few things they could not, and would not, take away.

And so a routine is established. He wakes up late, when the sunlight peeking through the metal shutters is too bright to ignore. He freshens up in the attached bathroom, eats breakfast, and studies until a guard knocks on his door. He searches him for what seems like hours, only taking Ren outside when he's satisfied.

From there, Ren is given two options. He can run around the perimeter by himself. Or play some basketball—by himself.

 

He runs.

It reminds him of training with Ryuji, exploring palaces with the others, laughing together as they tagged in and out of battle.

It reminds him of casing out palaces, legs working fast, brain working faster analyzing the structure and entry points of every building.

And like those things, this also ends. Ren's hour finishes up quickly and the guard walks him back to his room, where he studies until he falls asleep, a meal interspaced between.

 

The cycle continues for a couple of days, legs aching in the afternoon, brain mush by midnight. New Year's rolls around, and with it, cards.

The ones he gets are crumpled, tears in the corners, no doubt subjected to the same type of search he had gone through.

Ren carefully smooths them out, making sure to not rip any further, pressing the more damaged ones between the pages of his textbooks.

Soon enough, the salvaged cards sit at his desk, each drastically different. His parents’ is standard, a picture of his last birthday spent at home as its focus instead of the usual family one. Makoto and Ms. Nijima share a professional looking card. Haru slipped a pressed flower in hers, Ann's is glittering and storebought. Yusuke's, as expected, is artistic yet abstract. Futaba and Sojiro’s is a well made computer print out. Ryuji's is clumsier than the others, no doubt his own work, but he's beaming in the picture, standing side by side with his mother.

And that isn't all. All of his confidants, people who knew his identity as a Phantom Thief but never gave it away, send their greetings as well. Hifumi, Shinya, Iwai, the list goes on and on.

It's almost too much to count. The sheer amount of people who have not forgotten him, who have sent him cards with their own personal touch. _Thank you,_ they all say. _I'll be waiting for you._

Ren wipes the tears off on the sleeve of his shirt, making sure not a single one falls near his gifts. He stacks them on top of each other, placing them on the corner of his desk, leaning back with a sigh when he finishes.

A wind blows through the closed room not long after, scattering the cards across the floor. Ren leans down to pick them up, stiffening as he feels a chill go up his spine. He turns, unconsciously digging his nails into his palms, assessing the room in careful sweeping motions.

Something shifts near the bed opposite to his own and Ren grabs his heaviest textbook, slowly approaches.

The figure becomes clearer with every step and Ren stops, breath caught in his throat, as a man long dead smiles up at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dropping this one a bit early bc smth smth, eid mubarak!
> 
> emetophobia warning btw

The man who sits next to him as he studies is intangible. The man who watches him brush his teeth in the morning is transparent.

It's been a week since he appeared in Ren's room, lips upturned and a finger placed in front of them. He pointed to the camera in the room, Ren's eyes following, and whispered, _shush._

Ren had played along then, shoved all of his questions deep down inside—and yawned. Exaggeratedly.

He dropped his textbook on the bed, exactly where his visitor was sitting, watching his indignant expression as the book passed through him. “Huh,” Ren said as the book partially sunk into the mattress at one end, the other upright. “Looks like this one isn't better.” He bit his lip, one last look at the the being in front of him, and walked to his bed. Day clothes still on, he went to sleep.

From there, things hadn't progressed too much. On his end, at least.

His visitor keeps himself busy, inspecting the walls, inspecting the furniture—peering through them on occasion, listing off multiple safety concerns while Ren listens.  He watches the guards too, counting off the minutes between their patrols, leaning through the wall and reading the messages off their phones without a hint of shame.

Ren squashes it down, the feeling of endearment, that tiny bud of hope, and reminds himself that this is nothing but show.

Goro Akechi died on that ship, Futaba had sensed it herself. Ghost was an easy assumption to make, but that's what it was, an assumption.

While his stint as a phantom thief had made him a bit more receptive to the fantastic, it had also made him more wary, more skeptical of others’ intentions.

They've faced down plenty of liars, drew power from the masks they themselves wore. They've had people fight alongside them who plotted murder. They've had benefactors who planned to bring about ruin. Perhaps the reminder of the cameras was part of a ploy, part of another false god’s plan to gain the perfect pawn.

Perhaps it was more mundane. Ren had heard of how far holographic technology had advanced and while it was normally out of the government’s budget, weren't the Phantom Thieves worth that much?

Goro Akechi was the first person to catch him. Goro Akechi had ties to the Phantom Thieves. Goro Akechi had gone missing.

He was the perfect bait to dangle in front of the leader. Ideal to make Akira talk a bit too much, let the names he carefully guarded through multiple interrogations slip.

Perhaps, perhaps. _Perhaps_.

There were too many variables, too little information.

Its times like this that Ren wish he had Morgana with him.

Morgana would listen to his frustrations, his insecurities with an open ear. He'd let Ren pet his fur as he talked, reassure Ren in that pompous way of his, that he knew whom he chose, that he never regretted his decision.

Morgana would analyze people the way he did in battle, adding insight to Ren's day to day interactions, and telling Ren to go to sleep when he worried too much or overthought.

But Morgana is dead. The same way Akechi is dead. Ren's seen Haru cry over her father; he, himself, has cried enough over the previous two.

For the dead to walk right back into their lives, simply put, it's too good to be true. They were lucky enough to get a miracle on Ryuji. The world wouldn't just give them another one. They struggled far too much for it to be this easy.

 

The apparition addresses him over lunch.

“This isn't normal,” he says, hands on his chin. “Juvenile Hall is supposed to focus on rehabilitation, not punishment. And subjecting someone to solitary for this long runs counter to their mission and methodology.”

He waits for Ren's response. Ren refuses to give one. He slowly takes a sip of miso soup, surprisingly more flavorful this time around (had they stopped watering down their dashi?), and then another.

Behind him, the visitor sighs, exhales more out of practice than necessity. There's disappointment etched across those features, Ren doesn't have to turn around to tell. But, he thinks, grabbing a bit of rice, if this imposter wanted to impress him, gain his trust, he had to try a lot harder than telling him things he already knew. Ren had done the research himself. After Shido’s accusation, his court date impending, Ren used his time out on bail wisely.

Futaba helped him later on, when being arrested was more of a possibility than a plan, getting access to information in a way that was just a tiny bit illegal, and more than a bit useful. So, yes, he _knows_ this isn't how it's supposed to work. He knows that the system is supposed to be better; this isn't the first time he's seen it fail.

He knows, he knows. He _knows_.

Seething anger and annoyance churn in his gut and give rise to realization. _He knows._

Ren had known about the camera beforehand, considered the possibility of surveillance equipment. He had known that the furniture was awful, he could tell by just looking at it.  He had seen the guard texting during Ren's hour of exercise, a hint of a smile stretching across grim features. A message as basic as the one the apparition had read off didn't take too much brainpower to come up with.

He didn't know the guards’ schedules for certain, but he did know that they patrolled in shifts, heard their shoes clanking against the floor into the night. Once again, making up details to fill in the blanks would be subconscious.

Perhaps, there were no fancy holograms or imposter. Perhaps, it was just him all along.

Was he hallucinating out of loneliness? Or was there something else? Ren turns back to his lunch, chopsticks scrambling for purchase among the rice—and freezes. The utensils along with him.

He noticed it before, that the food was better. More flavorful, more appealing. The question was, why was the food better?

Was there something in his lunch? His breakfast, his dinner? Did they put something in his water as well, the bottles after bottles he drank after his workout?

Was it really to get answers or was it for something more nefarious? Shido’s conviction hinged on his testimony. If they could prove that he wasn't alright, wasn't sound of mind, well, with all the power his cohorts had, it could get overturned.

Everything Ren, the Phantom Thieves, had worked for would be ruined.

Bile churns in his stomach, rises up in his throat. Ren shoves his food away, miso soup spilling on his desk, spreading and soaking his schoolwork. He jumps from the chair, upturning it without a thought, a hand covering his mouth, and runs to the bathroom. He races past Akechi, who watches him in surprise, follows him in.

Ren sits on his knees, back hunched, facing the toilet bowl. He heaves, presses hard against his stomach, forcing his body to push out more.

He flushes. Again and again and again.

Watches as it’s purged and sent away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late! and messy! and short, but, uh...  
> i don't really have an excuse tbh

On Mondays, Ren cleans.

It's part of his schedule. On Monday, he cleans. On Tuesday, he changes the sheets. Wednesday and Thursday are for studying. Friday and Saturday for tests. And finally, Sunday, for not giving a fuck.

Each day is color-coded on his calendar for whatever task he has to perform. The calendar itself is a cheap printout, stamped with a website’s url at the bottom, large blanks on each day to fill in a multitude of tasks.

And it's surprisingly still neat. No eraser marks, scribbles, or doodles within the boxes. A complete contrast to the room around him.

The mess from yesterday remains. His desk is a disaster, coated with the sticky remains of the miso soup, the liquid already seeped into the wood. There is rice scattered across the floor, several grains smushed to form a layer on the concrete. And in the bathroom, the scent of vomit lingers.

It's disgusting, he knows. Morgana would scold Ren if he was around. Tell him in that haughty tone of his that this was no way for a phantom thief to behave. Tell him that Ren's health comes first, he's not going out tonight—going nowhere until this is cleaned up and he's well rested.

Ren would grumble, of course. Bury his face in Morgana’s fur and complain about his busy schedule. Morgana wouldn't bend, he'd stick to his position and—

Ren shakes his head, disrupting his wild thoughts. This was no time to get nostalgic. He has a room to clean.

He is given paper towels, a sponge, and a broom with a detachable dustpan. The broom is aluminum, new when Ren first used it, sturdy enough not to be easily snapped (jagged edges fashioned into a weapon) but lightweight enough that it had no use as a club.

They don't provide him any of the commercial spray cleaners. The smell is too strong, chemicals too heavy for a closed room with a permanent occupant.

He had asked. Kept his head down and knocked, _no sudden moves hands up nice and simple._ Asked the man outside if there was anything he could use.

 _There's plenty of soap in the bathroom,_ he had said with a shrug. _Figure something out._

And so, Ren does.

 

There's a tab by the sink. Pull on it and it blocks off the drain. Fill up the sink with hot water.

Add a couple of pumps of antibacterial soap. Squeeze in some toothpaste. Mix with fingers until the solution is even throughout.

Ren dips his paper towels into the liquid, scrunching them up right after to get rid any excess.

He works slowly, with short swipes. He's careful not to let the material tear, switching out for a new one when it gets too dirty.

It snowed last night. Delicate flakes gathered up quickly, forming heavy blankets, which in turn melted and refroze into sheet upon sheet of ice.

It's beautiful, picturesque the way the sunlight glints off the surface and…

And Ren can't go outside.

His winter jacket and boots are at LeBlanc. He can't call Sojiro to drop it off. They won't let him go out to retrieve it or even buy another.

 _Look but don't touch_ , an old adage rings familiar in his mind. A favorite refrain of his parents whenever they took him shopping. One often repeated on his own lips when he realized that his brand new start wasn't as inviting as it appeared.

The hallucination watches Ren from his bed. It sits, legs crossed, heel striking the floor in a relentless _tap, tap, tap._ It makes Ren's heart beat faster in turn, a rhythm if you will, a countdown growing more and more frantic as it approaches its end.

The hallucination doesn't talk—hasn't since those few murmured _Ren_ s as it watched him empty out his stomach. It had reached out to him then, an imitation of what Ren wished the real Akechi had done, but then retracted. Fingers curling inwards, arm pulling back.

_(Look, don't touch.)_

Ren likes to pretend he didn't notice.

 

Soon, the bathroom is clean. Sink sparkling, pipes shining, it's in far better condition now than when Ren first stepped in.

He moves to the desk right after. Cleaning the bathroom first had tempered his initial disgust, so it's with a straight face that he peels off the dried vegetables, running dry (then wet, then dry again) paper towels through every nook and cranny. And soon, that too, is finished.

His papers lie flat and discolored. The ink bleeds, fading in and out. Ren carefully lifts them up, one by one, from underneath the vent where they were left to dry.

He stuffs them all in one of his folders. Sticks that folder into his ever growing pile of graded tests and papers. They're a mess, yes, but what isn't anymore?

 

His breakfast sits by the door, cold and forgotten. Ren had eaten a couple of bites, just enough so he doesn't starve. He had heard somewhere (was it Makoto's notes or conversation with Akechi?), something about drugs being calculated specifically for each person.

 _Too little,_ a smooth voice had told him, _and the desired effect doesn't take place. Too much and you run the risk of the drugged dying._

It isn't the perfect example. Akechi, he's sure that's who it was now, spoke of knocking people out, not giving them visions. But it was the only thing Ren had to go off on.

The water is safe, he's certain of that at least. He recognizes the brand, the cap on the bottle is sealed tight, and there are no strange injection marks to be found, even with his assisted perception skills.

 _So wasteful,_ he can hear Yusuke say. _Buying all this when tap water is provided for free._

It's safe, he tells him, remembering Akechi who had always carried a bottle or two around. In this situation, it's absolutely worth it.

Yusuke gives a hum of acknowledgement. _I suppose I'll concede this point to you,_  he says. _It is your situation, after all._ And with a warm wave of understanding, the voice fades out, leaving Ren wishing he had imagined more antagonistic friends.

The clock reads two thirty. In half an hour, he is to meet his first visitor.

He finishes sweeping the floor in five—and waits, sitting on the bed opposite to the hallucination, the rest of the time. The clock ticks by slowly, but just before it strikes three, the guard knocks once, then twice, on his door.

Ren gets up, clothes coated with filth and grime, fresh ones still folded and placed next to his breakfast, and walks out.

In a meeting room, Sae Nijima waits.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! coming back to this after almost a year. i made some edits in the previous chapters, changed some "akiras" into "rens" (i usually let the old stuff go but goro is referred to akechi so far and well, names start pretty similar. i like it better this way.
> 
> warning for developing eating disorder

They walk him down a flight of stairs, past multiple corridors—into a completely different wing of the building.

The flooring shifts from tile to concrete, the hours worth of polish replaced with a dull diffusive finish. The paint job is just a little less brighter, a little bit smoother. It's weathered from years of use, a contrast to the frequent little fix ups upstairs.

The walls themselves, are the same as upstairs. Far too thin, listening to every story, and spilling them in quick succession. One boy only has a week left on his sentence, it's another's birthday. A third is getting lectured by his parents for messing up so badly. And so on and so forth.

Ren's never got to meet the others himself, his assignment to solitary was, well, _solitary_. He doesn't know their names, their stories, nothing beyond the fact that they were all under twenty.

 

He likes to think that he'd make friends, though. While some were probably just awful people, that didn't count for everyone. There might be cells filled with those like him, people who just couldn't look away.

The guard leads him to his conference room soon enough, second from the end. The door swings open with barely a creak.

The apparition waits outside. Ren is grateful—he needs all the focus he can manage, and the imagined drama between two former co-workers isn't exactly ideal.

 

Ms. Niijima sits opposite to the door, a pile of folders on the table in front of her. Her face is calm, blank as she nods in greeting to the guard, eyes not moving away from her charge as the man sits Ren down and walks down to the end of the room to give them some privacy.

And then, within seconds, her professional demeanor drops. Her stiff expression melts, features soften, a concerned look, identical to her sister's, takes over.

"Ren," she says, looking him up and down—clothes filthy, hair messy, skin sallow. "How have you been?"

He forces himself to smile, no need to drive away the one person who cares what happens to him. "Trapped, I guess." he says with a shrug. Ha ha ha, get it, he's in detention _and_ miserable.

Ms. Niijima doesn't even crack a smile. It makes sense, she's probably hears stuff like this all the time.

"I understand it's been a rough couple of weeks."

Ren looks away. "Yeah…."

 

"We're working hard," She assures him, drawing back attention. "The court date is close and there are quite a few preparations to be made."

"We couldn't have done it without you," she adds.

Ms. Niijima waits, perhaps for a comment, a question, but nothing comes. Ren doesn't have anything. It's almost over. That's all there is to it.

"Anything else?" she asks, expanding her search. "Anyone bothering you? I can't promise much but I have a contact here."

 

 _Please let me out_ , he wants to say.

"The food…" he says, instead.

He pauses, tries his best to not choke over his words. "It's good. It didn't used to be but now…."

He raises his head—only to be greeted with a smile on Ms. Niijima's face. "Is it really?" she asks.

Ren can only nod, everything else is frozen.

 

"That's a relief," she says. "People have been worried."

He feels nauseous. Why is it a relief? Who has been worried? Why?

Does she want to know more, did her trust from the interrogation room fade? Does she think he's hiding something from him? Did she call, specifically asking for him to be drugged?

Ren's heart beats a mile a minute, yet little of that oxygen is going to the right place. Ms. Niijima does not stop smiling. Does she know he's about to collapse? Or is she just ignoring it?

He leans forwards, hands gripping his knees—barely catches her _goodbye_.

 

The hallucination says nothing as Ren leaves the room, follows him quietly, steps behind the guard. His expression blank, but gaze filled with that same _concern_ Ms. Nijima had.

"Shut up," Ren whispers.

A pair of footsteps stop, leaving only Ren and the guard. The walk back is longer than ever.

 

* * *

 

There is no place quite like the Velvet Room. The space exists as a perfect circle—stone floors complemented by padded cells. He wakes up in one of these, shackles shattered beforehand, bars twisted, doors torn off their hinges.

His prisoner's garb is ill-fitting, hanging off his frame. Slowly, he gets up, bare feet switching from carpet to stone unflinchingly—there is no sensation and he's far past pretending—and makes his way towards the center.

And old man sits behind a desk. To his right, a young girl in blue.

"Are you sure about this?" she asks. "You were given a choice. You can still leave."

"But that's not what you want me to do, is it?" he says. "This is what's best for everyone."

She doesn't respond, but doesn't look away either.

He turns around, ignoring how the old man's ever so watchful eyes bore into his back, and heads back to his cell.

He does not sleep.

 

* * *

 

The hallucination is back by morning. It's not unexpected, Ren's familiar with how stubborn Akechi was, how far the other would go for his goals. If the world was better, he could have done a lot of good things with that kind of persistence.

Ren, himself, is buried under a pile of blankets. The heating isn't the best and each day grows colder still.

Each hour slowly bleeds into the next. His lunch tray, untouched, replaces his breakfast tray, also untouched. His homework is collected, the guard wrinkling his nose at the smell of miso stained sheets, and the world goes on.

In a few hours, Ms. Niijima will be laughing with Makoto over dinner. Tomorrow, his friends will go to school, texting each other during class, hanging out after. Sojiro will open LeBlanc as always.

They'll be happy, they'll be sad, they'll move on—with or without Ren.

Ren buries his face in his pillows. The cameras are still recording. No matter what, he won't let them see him cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just letting you all know that there isn't any chara bashing going on, ren just has a lot on his plate. please kudos/comment if you liked!!


	5. Chapter 5

There's a knock at the door, an affectation of politeness more than anything else, followed by the click of a lock and creak as the hinges make way for heavy boots—Ren’s visitor a firm believer in the Loud Footsteps Equals Intimidation school of thought.

The guard doesn't stay for long. There's a clatter as an empty water bottle is tossed onto a metal tray, a rustle of cloth that indicates one meal being swapped out for another. More footsteps. A shuffle of papers, and then a grunt before he leaves.

There's a certain feeling you get before the sickness. There's a dizziness before the fever, a dry throat before the coughing, a tiredness before the migraines.

Ren feels it all the time.

Numbness grabs him by the hands, seeps through the skin, and travels to his heart. An ache follows, digging even deeper until it rings through his bones—echoing endlessly.

It's three days after his meeting with Ms. Niijima—a carefully wrapped present that only he heard tick like a bomb—and Ren’s rarely left his bed since.

The blankets, thin as they are, wrap around him like a cocoon.While little light would normally make its way through, in his dimly lit cell, they're a portable blackout. The guards don't bother and to the cameras, he might as well be invisible.

And with exceptions made naturally for air, functionally impenetrable.

That is—

Until a hand, translucent, nails well-manicured, peeks into Ren's sanctuary.

It reaches in past the first knuckle, sweeps past Ren's face in a wide arc, then withdraws immediately.

It's a show of power, nothing more, but with a sigh, he accepts his self-imposed distraction, pushing the sheets down until his eyes are visible, and the apparition comes into view.

There's a smile, bordering on a smirk, on the hallucination’s face. Self-satisfied to the point it's maddening. Intellectually Ren knows that it means nothing. There is no reason to react, but he does regardless, gesturing for it to continue.

Now Ren expects certain responses. The standard pre-programmed set of eight that would range from his own self-hatred ( _pathetic_ , Akechi would call him, spitting out the words with a sneer) to his desperate desire for comfort (Goro holding him close and promising that everything will be alright).  The hallucination follows none of those two paths, nor the six in between.

“Ren,” he says, tasting his name like a delicacy—breathy before the final consonant.

A pause.

“What do you think it means to be happy?”

He's teasing him; he's baiting him. Clearly, Ren’s subconscious hates him more than he could have imagined.

Ren rolls over and goes back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Lavenza grows more and more worried by the day.

She scrunches up her face so often, pinching the bridge of her nose as she does, that he's certain her ageless face will form wrinkles before the month is over.

 

* * *

 

The hallucination is there when he wakes. He's a blur, taking a moment for the focus, the image slowly becoming crisp.

He’s barely moved, sitting at the edge of the bed, legs crossed primly, running a finger across the metal frame.

He smiles again, warmer this time. And asks Ren another question. ( _What will your friends do for you?)_

Once again, Ren deflects.

The hallucination continues. Perhaps to establish some semblance of a schedule, perhaps to give the passing time some meaning.

On the third day, Ren is too dizzy to hear the question—has only the faint memory of parted lips and drawn out syllables to carry him through. On the fourth, he collapses.

He's expected it. An inevitability these past few days, really—but Ren is still startled when he finds himself moved, in a more comfortable bed, with an IV attached to an arm.

He hears a clinking sound when he attempts to move the other. A handcuff, not even padded, hooked and clasped around a plastic rung.

It's a hospital, he guesses as he looks around, taking in the scrubbed walls (soap residue visible when the light hit it just right), the expensive machinery, and wide windows.

There's a tray on the table near him: a sandwich wrapped in plastic next to smaller pre-packaged snacks. He can tell those haven't been tampered with, but that feeling of nausea, that cocktail of revulsion and hunger, is the same.

It's not that he hasn't been eating at all. Ren’s learnt enough in bio about having too much water and too little salts, but a couple bites every other day isn't enough energy to keep everything up and running, unfortunately.

It's not long before the nurse enters. She walks in with a deliberately even pace, shoes squeaking lightly as they drag across the tile. She situates herself in clear view of Ren, no bending or leaning over required, a practiced smile, a _good morning_ to which he can only nod.

She tucks a piece of flyaway hair behind her ear as she turns to read his charts, scanning over his vitals. She speaks again.

“Sorry,” Ren says, barely a whisper. “Didn't hear that.”

She repeats. “Do you know why you're here?"

Ren simply points the the food in response. She jots down a couple of notes on her clipboard.

She asks him his name, his age, a list of basic information easily lifted off his passport. He answers, only pausing when she goes to draw blood. She walks out minutes later, more briskly than she came.

Ren spends one more day in the hospital, being spoon-fed meals (he doesn't want to talk about it), until the detention center pulls him out. They get a guard, unfamiliar, to walk him out while a middle aged man in a suit fills out his discharge paperwork.

The car they take him to isn't one of the sleek black classic ones from the movies. Instead, it resembles his aunt's beat up Toyota from the 80s, the seats worn in from boxes upon boxes of paperwork. Ren rubs his aching wrists in the back as the suit explains the mandated therapy sessions behind the wheel.

“The police are in need of your services,” he says. “You are an asset.” The words are meant to be reassuring, but they make his stomach sink and churn, curdling until the sentiment separates.

His room isn't much different than he's left it; his bed a mess, his desk similar—piled up with unfinished assignments. Ren sifts through them idly, going through each without taking anything in.

“The answer is 3.7,” a voice pipes in after a minute of staring at unfamiliar functions. “For question one.”

Ren works backwards, using the formulas he does know, and writes it down the moment he realizes it's right.

He stills. The pen drops from slack fingers.

It's right.

Ren turns to the phantom, a little bit desperation, a little bit wonder.

“You're...real…” There's a lump in his throat, the whole thing creaking and weary, but he rasps out the words all the same.

The ghost of Akechi Goro smiles. “Took you long enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> please comment/kudos if you liked!!


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